


As The Days Grow Shorter

by paper_bird



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), not an alternative universe so much as a canon divergent past
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-01-11 18:27:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18429668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paper_bird/pseuds/paper_bird
Summary: Upon receiving a full scholarship to one of the most prestigious colleges in the country, Smallville native Clark Kent is thrown into a completely unfamiliar world. Balancing school life, new friends and his most important secrets are all challenges Clark is willing to embrace.Now getting his new roommate to stop driving him insane (in more ways than one) was another matter entirely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full disclosure, while I am a university student, I’m not American and have never lived in a dorm. If I make any absolutely outstandingly terrible mistakes then drop a comment, but otherwise just bear with me here :)
> 
> In the spirit of Captain Marvel this fic is set in the late 90s.

_“I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”_

 There had only been two times in his life that Clark had seen Pa Kent shed tears over his son. The first he didn’t like to dwell on, but the second, an acceptance letter and congratulations certificate for a full ride scholarship to Metropolis University, would stay with him as one of the happiest memories of his life.

 Within days his quiet midwestern life had been turned on its head, well-wishing relatives, high school friends and even old teachers dropping by the house. Before he knew it, the local Smallville paper had caught wind of their golden boy’s success story and had dropped by to do a piece on him. His parents would only let him take the picture if he wore his father’s goofy thick-rimmed glasses and held the certificate up to partially obscure his face.

 “You can never know where pictures end up these days.” Was Pa Kent’s only explanation.

 However his academic good-fortune came with its ups and downs. Dropping by just before dusk only the night before he was due to leave for the big city, the (at the time) love of his life finally came to visit.

 “Lana,” he said, closing the fly screen behind him as he stepped onto the porch. He kept his voice hushed, Ma Kent had been taking herself to bed early the past few years, the ache in her old bones making the chill of the night more troublesome than she liked. “Where’ve you been? I’ve been round to your house on my paper run every day the past two weeks and called by every evening. But your Pa always said you were out.”

 She hesitated, standing at the bottom of the stairs, twirling a lock of auburn hair between her fingers. She was scrapping her ruby pumps together without seeming to notice, outward, then inward, heels sinking into the soft earth.

 “I wanted to say congratulations,” she said after a lengthy pause, the silence encouraging the cicadas into an almost unbearably loud chorus. “I always knew you were smart, Clark.”

 He rubbed a hand across the back of his head. “Thanks.”

 “Are you gonna accept it?”

 “Uh,” he blinked. “Well, yes, of course I am. You know Met U has always been my dream college.”

 “Yeah…” she trailed off. “I just thought maybe things were different now.” Her heart shaped face was pale in the moonlight, bottom lip swollen from being worried between her teeth.

 “Oh Lana.” He took the stairs two at a time to stand on even ground with her, reaching outbut then quickly drawing back as she flinched away. “We can figure something out, right? There’s all sorts of ways of long distance communication these days. Pete was just telling me about this computer thing called AIM where you can–”

 She interrupted him by putting a hand on his cheek. “Clark,” she said, “You know I love you, as my boyfriend and as my best friend. But I, well, I’ve always planned to stay here in Smallville. Have a couple of kids, a couple of horses, grow old with the friends I made in high school. But you’ve always wanted bigger things, I know that, and I think that you really are destined for something that I just won’t ever be a part of.”

 He cupped her hand with his own. “You’re breaking up with me,” he said, feeling his heart sink. “That’s why you didn’t want to see me.”

 She leaned up on the tips of her toes and kissed him, the soft sensation fading to a memory before she broke contact. “I’ll always be here for you as a friend when you come back to visit,” she said. “We’ve known each other too long to let it go to waste now.” With those parting words she turned away and melted into the summer night.

 

 

Ma Kent seemed to have sensed his glum mood seemingly before Clark had even woken up, a fresh stack of golden pancakes greeting him in the kitchen as he stumbled downstairs. He blinked at her, bleary eyed and dark hair askew and gave her a sleepy one armed hug before making a beeline toward the food.

 “G’morning Ma, Pa,” he said through a mouthful of pancake. “How’d you guys sleep?”

 “Not bad,” Pa Kent said, “And yourself, Son?”

 “Lana dumped me.” Was his only response.

 His parents uttered a simultaneous “Ah”, Pa Kent dropping his newspaper and Ma Kent dropping her spatula to cluster around him for comfort.

 “Unfortunately it was only a matter of time,” Pa Kent said, and shrugged at the scolding _“Oh hush, Jonathan!_ ” he received from his wife. “Lana’s a country girl and deep down we all know you’ve always had big city dreams.”

 “Yeah,” he sniffed, “She said much the same.”

 His mother squeezed his shoulder. “Would you like to delay the move another day, dear?”

 “No, it’s ok,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “You’ve already bought me a bus ticket and I finished packing last night.”

 “Well, if you’re sure.” She pursed her lips. “Jonathan, dear, you were going to speak to him about the glasses?”

 “Oh, yes, that’s right.” He disappeared from the room and returned quickly with a pair of his old glasses. Clark continued to chew his pancakes morosely.

 “Now Son, I know you’ve dabbled in a little bit of helping here and there. But in the big city you’re going to hear a lot more trouble and you’ll attract a lot more attention doing the things you do. That’s why Martha and I have these for you.”

 “Uh.” Clark looked at the battered old frame and then back up at his father. “You want me to wear glasses if I go to save people from burning buildings?”

 “I believe Jonathan was suggesting you wear them at the times when you aren’t doing that.” She brushed a hand through his hair absentmindedly.

 “That’s my… disguise?”

 Pa Kent chucked at his skeptical expression. “You’d be surprised at how well you hide behind them. Here, give it a go.”

 Clark took the glasses from him and padded across the room to the hallway mirror. Slipping the glasses on for the second time that month, he raised an eyebrow at his reflection, prepared to be thoroughly unimpressed. Instead, well, he was greeted by someone he didn’t quite recognize as himself.

 He leaned forward and peered into the mirror. “How does this work?”

 “Glasses hide the face shape, make the nose more pronounced,” Pa Kent said. “But the things that are really being altered here are your eyes.”

 “My eyes?” Clark took the glasses off and squinted into the mirror again. “What about them?”

 “Something we noticed, even when you were just a tiny baby, was that your eyes are a most unusual shade of blue,” his mother said, turning him gently to face her. “They’ve always stood out and been the feature everyone has noticed first about you. But the glasses distort them, tint them into a different shade. I’m not quite sure why it works so effectively, but I almost feel as if I could pass you in the street and not even recognise you with these on.”

 Clark glanced back at his reflection one last time and couldn’t help but chuckle. “I’m not even sure how you guys figured this one out, but I’ll go with it.”

 “It’s either that or you dress mighty fancy like that old Green Lantern chap. I reckon Martha can sew you something flamboyant.”

 “Thanks but I’ll pass, Pa,” he said, rolling his eyes. He looked to the clock. “It’s past 8, I’d better get my bags down here.”

 “Righto, we’ll give you a lift to the bus stop,” his father said.

 “No flying in the house!” Ma Kent’s reminder followed him up the stairs.

 

 

 The further he travelled from Smallville, the heavier the ache in his heart became. He had to take an overnight bus from the Kansas City long distance bus terminal to Star City, and then a train from there to Metropolis. All in all nearly a 24 hour trip, not accounting for him inevitably missing his train.

 His friends had all written him letters, ranging from encouragement to light hearted ribbing, all demanding him to call them once he reached his dorm. Those thoughts were put to the side presently, as he had a more pressing concern, his new roommate.

 Clark had always been an only child, and while money had been hard to come by at times in the past, he had never had any want for extra space at home. The farmland in Smallville stretched for miles and even he had trouble making out the distant neighbouring towns.He had never had to share his room with anyone, much less a stranger his age or older. His dorm arrangements form hadn’t been particularly forthcoming, only a bright red [PENDING] stamped on the roommate name line of his form.

 He sunk lower into his seat and tried to get some sleep, unable to get his flip flopping stomach to behave. The landscape became progressively urban as the hours passed and eventually he had to cover his nose with his hand, senses assaulted by the overwhelming stench of petrol. It became impossible to even pretend to sleep, even as the cabin lights were switched off and the passengers around him settled down for the night.

 The city didn’t sleep and thus neither did Clark. There were hundreds of babies crying, men shouting, car alarms going off, guns being fired. He straightened up with a sigh and considered turning his reading light on, stopping himself only because he didn’t want to disturb those sleeping around him.

 He rummaged through his bag and pulled his Met U brochures and information booklets out, finding the city lights more than enough for him to read by. He was planning to join the journalism society and perhaps the rural student society. He cast a wistful glance at the sport clubs but continued to flick through without dwelling on them. He didn’t consider any of the groups that required him to pay, as while his dorm, and thus his meals, and education were provided by the scholarship, he couldn’t exactly afford much out of pocket. Clark had $200 to his name from carefully saving up his paper run money, and whilst it seemed like a huge sum of money to him, he wasn’t naive enough to think it was going to get him very far in Metropolis.

 He passed the rest of the night thumbing through the dog-eared classics his mother had packed him. In the quietest hours of the night he drifted off briefly, book clutched loosely between his fingers.

 

 

Clark was awoken by the undeniably close honk of the bus horn and stumbled to his feet, bashing his head against the roof. 

 “Careful, Son,” an old man said, peering at him from under his wide brimmed hat. “You’ll do yourself a whole lotta damage, hittin’ the roof that hard.”

 He glanced up and saw the undeniable dent in the roof. “Oh, sorry,” he said, but the man had already continued down the aisle toward the exit.

 “Um, this is Star City, right?” he asked the bus driver, still blinking sleep from his eyes.

 “Sure is,” came the cheerful reply, “Enjoy your stay.”

 “Oh, I’m not– ok, thank you.” He was ushered from the bus by the last straggling passengers behind him and out into the bright sunlight. Under the warm rays he immediately felt his strength return to him and turned his face upward, basking in the midday light as he waited to collect his suitcase.

 Stepping into the lively crowds of Saturday noon shoppers, Clark was immediately overwhelmed by the enormity of the city. He struggled to pull his Star City map from his bag before eventually giving up, fearing hurting someone due to the unceasing bumping and jostling of impatient pedestrians.

 “Ma’am, um, sorry to bother you, but do you know the way to the nearest train station?” He stopped a (relatively) kind looking woman who was pushing a pram. The infant made curious clinking noises. She glanced at him and then jerked a thumb backward in the direction she had come from, before manoeuvring around him. As he continued to walk he realised that her pram had been crammed full of bottles of wine, no baby inside.

 With some time, carefully perusal of his travel plan, and polite questions to disgruntled employees, Clark managed to find the right train. It was a sleek locomotive, so far removed from the battered old machine travelling in the opposite direction to Gotham City, that Clark had to check twice to make sure he hadn’t accidentally stepped onto the premium carriage.

 A brief two hours later he was stepping onto the platform at one of the largest stations in the country. People brushed past him, moving briskly but with quick apologies and friendly smiles as they stepped past his suitcase. A large billboard read “WELCOME TO METROPOLIS” in bright blue letters.

 Metropolis University was half a mile south of Metropolis City Central Station, an easy walk for him, his large suitcase no bother. He straightened his clothes self consciously, well aware that he was going to be making his first impressions in slept in clothes and not having had a shower in over 24 hours, despite the cloying heat.

 The lady at the college admission desk gave him a broad, red lipped smile as he stumbled over his name.

 “Mr Kent, we’re _very_ excited to have you with us,” she said, standing. She crossed the room, heels clacking against the dark wood floor and knocked twice on a closed office door.

 Clark rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache forming. “Really?”

 “Why of course,” she said, turning back to him with a surprised expression. “It isn’t every day that we have a student as exceptional as you come from such a… disadvantaged area.”

 “Oh, thanks, I think?”

 Before she could respond, the door opened and a disheveled man pushed past her to greet Clark.

 “Mr Kent,” he said, and offered a hand for Clark to shake. “I’m Mr O’Connel and I’ll be showing you to your new dormitory.”

 “Nice to meet you, sir,” he replied, following him. “I didn’t know someone would be showing me to my room, but I sure do appreciate it. The big city gets pretty confusing.”

 He chuckled, leading him down an avenue, between sharp, modern buildings. “Well not all our students get the tour, but you’ll be staying in the Edna Luthor Dorm. It takes a little to get used to the old building.” His laugh turned nervous and he wiped sweat from his forehead. Clark noted his increased heart rate.

 The dorm building was indeed old, but not at all difficult to maneuver. He scanned the structure quickly and found it all straightforward, unsurprised when Mr O’Connel led him to the steep stairs to the left of the entrance. The man was already bright red and puffing at the top of the first flight of stairs.

 “Are you ok with your suitcase?” he asked, puffing as he leaned over the banister. “I’m afraid there’s no elevator and your room is on the top floor.”

 “Oh, it’s no problem,” Clark replied, as it was indeed no struggle for him to lift the suitcase. “But thank you for asking.”

 Mr O’Connel struggled but eventually made it to the top floor, Clark following patiently behind. Wiping the sweat from his forehead he cleared his throat and knocked on the door. There was only one door on the top floor, strangely enough. Clark frowned but didn’t attempt to sneak a peak inside yet.

 He heard what sounded like a book slammed down onto a wooden table before the pad of bare feet drew closer to the door. It opened to reveal a young man Clark’s age or slightly older. His dark hair was combed back neatly, yet he was only wearing a hoodie, boxer shorts and one pink-white sock. Despite the mismatched attire, he was excessively attractive and Clark found himself immediately torn between trepidation and intrigue. He regarded them both with an unimpressed gaze before going to close the door again.

 He was stopped by Mr O’Connel who quickly jammed his shoulder into the door, seeming to have been prepared for that response.

 “Now, please Mr Wayne, we spoke about this already. This is your new roommate, Clark Kent.”

 He met his eyes with a sullen gaze briefly before turning back to Mr O’Connel. “I don’t want a new roommate.”

 “I– Well whilst I understand where you’re coming from, I’m afraid that’s a complaint you’ll need to take up with the Dean, not me,” he blustered, glancing between the two of them. “In the mean time, I do hope you’ll make Clark feel at home.”

 He turned and walked away from them, disappearing back into the room. Clark and Mr O’Connel shared a worried glance.

 “Guess that’s the best invitation I’m going to get.” He offered the man a tight smile. “Thanks for your help, Mr O’Connel.”

 “No problem, Son.” He leaned in conspiratorially and continued in a whisper. “Wayne might kick up a fuss, but between you and me, I wouldn’t worry about him kicking you out. The Edna Luthor ‘Penthouse’ dorm room is part of your scholarship contract.”

 “Oh, um, great,” he said, uncertain of whether being trapped with such a hostile roommate was really to his benefit. 

 Watching Mr O’Connel stumble back down the stairs, Clark slowly pushed his luggage into the room, dreading sharing such an inclosed space with someone who seemed to have already decided to despise him. He blinked when he realized he was not in a bedroom, but rather a lounge room. Suitcase forgotten by the TV cabinet, he stepped carefully inside, peering around the room.

 The lounge was large, three sofas around a mahogany coffee table with a small bronze statue of some kind of angel placed as a centre piece. The back of the room opened to a small dining table and a kitchen with a fine layer of dust over seemingly every surface.

 On the left and right side of the room there were doors leading into what he assumed were the bedrooms. His deliberation on which door to open (and if he dared to take the risk) was cut short by the door on the right side of the lounge room opening, slamming against the wall with enough force to make him cringe.

 “Oh, you’re still here.”

 “Yeah, well, I live here now,” he replied, crossing the room in long strides. “I’m Clark, though I think Mr O’Connel already mentioned it. I didn’t happen to catch your name though.”

 “Bruce.” He glanced at Clark’s offered hand but didn’t take it. There was something familiar in the depths of his clear blue eyes. “Are you a freshman?”

 “Yeah, you?” Feeling awkward he let the hand go limp and then shoved it into his pocket.

 “Junior.”

 “Oh, maybe you can show me around–” He was cut off by Bruce disappearing back into his room, shutting the door again with an abrupt click. “Ok, then…” he muttered, stifling a sigh. He resisted the urge to see what he was doing and instead grabbed his suitcase, deciding to check out his own room.

 The door creaked audibly when he opened it and he peered inside, taking in the bare white walls with the faint traces of blue tack smeared in several areas and the ornate frame of the bed. His bedroom walls at home had been blue, his favourite colour. He’d helped his father paint them when he was 8, the memory bringing a smile to his face even as he thought of the few paint splatters on the floor that had never scrubbed out.

 He flopped onto the bed, not caring that the mattress was bare, and curled on his side, trying to stave off the feelings of homesickness. He closed his eyes and listened to the heartbeats of nearby students, from the pitter-patter of a girl on the treadmill in the building next door, to the slow and steady rate of the sleeping boy two floors below. Gradually, with the quiet comfort of life around him, Clark drifted off to sleep, forgetting for a few hours how terribly far he was from home.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Friendship isn’t about whom you have known the longest… It’s about who came, and never left your side.”_  
— Mikaela Tiu

  
Clark didn’t catch even a glimpse of Bruce for the remainder of the weekend, despite spending the majority of his time in the communal area. He busied himself with responding to his friends’ letters and arranging his bedroom. There was a phone on the kitchen counter which he used to call his parents, speaking positively of Metropolis and putting their concerns at rest, though admittedly he hadn’t had a chance to actually check out the city as of yet.

  
His call to the Lang household rung out with no response.

  
It was difficult getting used to his luxurious new accommodation. He missed the cozy hearth in his parents cluttered little house, waking to the smell of his mother’s cooking and listening to his father share interesting tidbits from the local newspaper over dinner. Summer Sundays were always busy days in Smallville, Church in the morning, brunch with his aunts, and every other spare minute spent down by the waterhole with his friends and Lana.

The cafeteria only officially opened on Monday, but bread and instant noodles were available to all students. His dorm room kitchen stove was electric, rather than the gas he was used to and he was too afraid to touch it, lest he burnt the house down. His good friend Pete had told him horror stories about electric stoves.

  
It wasn’t until Monday morning that Bruce remerged, regarding him with an unreadable expression as he dropped into the seat across from him at the dining table. He was dressed drastically differently from the last time Clark had seen him, wearing a collared shirt and dress pants despite the heat. Clark was eating a bowl of cereal and drinking a glass of milk, having finally noticed the fridge.

  
He adjusted the cuff of his shirt as he watched Clark gulp down the liquid. “That milk’s expired, in case you didn’t know.”

  
He blinked down into the yellow liquid and then back up, but Bruce was already heading for the door.

  
“Wait!” He stumbled over his words as the other stopped and turned to him expectantly. “Uh, so why are you here anyway? This week’s orientation, if you’re a Junior then you wouldn’t need to attend–”

  
“Because I _love_ Metropolis so much that I couldn’t wait to return.”

  
“Oh, really?”

  
“No.” Hand on the door he hesitated. “I was avoiding an anniversary.”

  
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving one confused teenager with a slightly lumpy glass of milk.

 

  
His course orientation was at 10 that day in a building simply labeled as ‘Building 80’. Giving himself a full hour to find it, Clark set out, college map almost the size of his entire body in hand.

  
He was overwhelmed by the masses of students surrounding him as he crossed the campus. Freshmen everywhere were clustered into small to large groups, lining up for the hot dog stand, sprawling on the grass, chatting with older students at club activity booths. Everyone seemed to have familiar faces from their hometowns or high schools with them or had at least made fast friends with their roommates.

  
Building 80 turned out to be the absolute furthest building from the Edna Luthor Dorm possible, a severe eleven-story structure with reflective glass windows all the way up the side.

  
He was twenty minutes early and sat in the third row of the lecture hall, taking the time to gape at the high ceiling and massive projector. There must’ve been at least a thousand seats in the theatre, students only just beginning to trickle in. He noticed a pretty girl in a purple dress approach and ducked his head, not wanting her to think he’d been staring.

  
Unexpectedly she sat right next to him, despite the empty seats all around. She dropped her backpack onto the floor between them, not noticing as it landed on his foot. He wiggled his toes out from underneath, hoping he hadn’t dented anything important inside.

  
“Hi, I’m Lois,” she said, extended a hand and an easy smile. She spoke fast, with a confident edge to her tone that Clark couldn’t hope to mirror. He suspected she was a local, or at least from a similarly large city.

  
“Clark,” he replied, taking her hand eagerly. “Nice to meet you.”

  
She tilted her head to the side, dark hair cascading over her shoulder. “Where are you from, Clark? I’m guessing not around here.”

  
He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed that it had been so blatantly obvious to her. “You’d be right. I’m from Smallville, actually.”

  
“Smallville? Is that actually the name of a place?” her confusion was so audible it attracted the attention of students a few rows back who stopped their conversation for a second to glance down at them. “Where’s that, Oklahoma?”

  
“Kansas, actually,” he said, colour rising to his cheeks. “I’m pretty far from home.”

  
“You don’t say. I’ve actually never been to Kansas. Though I did watch The Wizard of Oz when I was a kid, so that’s practically the same thing.”

He pushed his glasses up as they slipped down the bridge of his nose. “I guess you can tell yourself that.”

  
She raised an eyebrow at him and then laughed, shaking her head. “You’re an interesting one, _Smallville_. How’ve you been finding the big city so far?”

  
“Overwhelming,” he admitted. “But I’ve only been here two days, so I’m hoping it won’t take too long to get used to things. Are you from Metropolis?”

  
“Both yes and no,” she said, attempting to tug her armrest desk out from its stowed position. “I’m a military brat, lived at army bases all over the world. Metropolis is where I spend most of my time though, and it’s my favourite city, so I consider it home.”

  
“Oh, wow. I’ve never been outside of Kansas.”

  
She smirked, turning away from him as the theatre lights dimmed. “I can tell.”

  
The TA running the session cleared her throat and the students put aside their conversations to focus on her.

 

 

  
“That was a load of crap,” Lois announced, feet barely out of the theatre door.

  
Clark’s eyes darted around and he ducked his head to respond in a frantic whisper. “There could be teachers anywhere around us!”

  
“Doesn’t mean it isn’t true,” she replied. “ _‘As journalists, you will be the blades of grass on the African Safari, observing the noble beast but never interacting with them.’_ Seriously? Not only does that imply that we’re all studying to become wallflowers, it also ignores all the African animals which are herbivores.”

  
“Um–”

  
“I mean you’ve got rhinos, antelope, African buffalo,” she continued, counting off on her fingers. “I could list more, but my point is that our observation skills won’t be very useful when we’re getting our heads bitten off. Right?”

  
“Well–”

  
“I shouldn’t have bothered waking up early for that,” she said, seeming not to notice as she interrupted him again. “Have you joined any clubs yet? Let’s join some clubs.” She snatched Clark’s map from his hands and used it to swipe at some students crowding around some of the more impressive wall decorations. “Move on boys, this is a hallway, not an Art Gallery.”

  
Metropolis University had a sort of park square in the middle of the college, a stretch of grass with an ornate fountain in the centre. Clark had passed through it on the way to Building 80 and recognised the majority of the club stands, though they were significantly more crowded than earlier.

  
“Is there anything you’re particularly interested in joining?” she asked, actually stopping to wait for his response.

  
“I hadn’t really thought about it yet.” He cast his eyes over the stands. “Maybe the rural student society?”

  
“Ok, you do that, Smallville,” she said. “Apparently Met U has a school newspaper, though I tried to find a recent copy and there was nothing post ’94.”

  
“There is?” he asked, scanning the park. “It’s in the far left corner. I’ll join if you do.”

  
“I don’t see– how can you even read signs that far away?”

  
“I, uh, saw it on my way in for the orientation lecture.” He pushed his glasses up. “Want to check it out?”

  
Lois didn’t respond, already halfway across the square.

  
Approaching the stand, Clark wasn’t at all surprised that the school newspaper hadn’t been released in four years. There were no brochures or information cards, only a sign reading “MET U CAMPUS NEWSPAPER” written in blue biro on an A4 sheet of white paper which was sticky taped to the front of the table. A sleep-deprived student sat on the other side, frantically scribbling what looked to be an essay in a notebook.

  
“Hi,” Lois said, and then when no response was forthcoming, added, “Excuse me?”

  
He glanced up and gaped at them as though he’d never seen another living person in his life. He scratched his sweat-stained armpit and glanced behind himself as if expecting another more appealing club stand to pop up out of nowhere.

  
“Uh, how can I help you guys?” he asked after a lengthy pause.

  
“We want to sign up,” she said. “Got a sheet for us to write down our details or something?”

  
“Both of you want to sign up? Really? Why?”

  
“Sorry, is that a problem?” Clark asked, bewildered.

  
The student scratched his head. “Fuck it. You want to join? How about I just make you two the co-leaders?” He tugged a form out from under the table. “See, this is me signing leadership away to you two. Write your details and sign on the dotted line. I have my thesis due at 23.59 tonight and I need to get to the computer room to type it up. Then I’m outta this place for good. Sayonara.”

  
Lois glanced at Clark. “Sounds good to me.”

  
He sniffed, signed the form and passed it across to the two freshmen, standing quickly and deserting his stall without a single glance back.

  
“Uh, make sure you read the fine print,” Clark said, peering over Lois’ shoulder as she picked up the form.

“No kidding. Reckon the club’s haunted?”

“That would be a headline, wouldn’t it? But I’m more thinking that it’s just a real challenge for time-poor students,” he replied, scratching his head.

“Perhaps, but it’s going to be amazing for our resumes,” she said. “What’s your number? I’ll text you once I get the paperwork filed.”

He frowned. “My number?”

“Yeah, phone number? Oh, don’t tell me you don’t have a phone.”

  
“Sorry,” Clark said, though he wasn’t really sure if it was s

omething he needed to apologise for. “My dorm room has a landline phone though, or it’s the top floor of the Edna Luthor Hall if you want to drop by.”

Her head snapped up from where she’d been reading the fine print of their contract. “Like the whole top floor?”

“Well, I am sharing it with another student so it isn’t really the whole floor–”

“Bruce Wayne, you’re Bruce Wayne’s roommate.” She laughed. “Are you serious?”

“Uh, do you guys know each other?”

“Not in the slightest, but I certainly know of him,” she replied. “You do know who he is, right?”

“Should I?”

“And to think I was planning on having you write the celeb gossip column,” she muttered, moving to sit in the ex-newspaper club leader’s seat. “Wayne’s arguably the richest person under 25 in the world.”

“Cool, I guess?” If anything that explained the attitude.

She snorted. “Hardly, it’s all from a trust fund. What’s he like as a person?”

“I couldn’t say, really. I don’t think he likes me very much.” He sighed.

“You’re probably too earnest for him,” she said, nodding knowingly. “Gothamites are cut from a different cloth from the rest of us.”

“To be honest I don’t really know the difference between Gotham and Metropolis.”

She leaned back in the chair and rolled her eyes. “Of course you wouldn’t. Maybe you should ask your roommate.”

“I’m not sure that Bruce would appreciate–”

“Appreciate what?”

Clark nearly jumped out of his skin, turning quickly to find the source of the interruption. The subject of their conversation was leaning against a nearby tree, stepping out from under its shade as the two of them turned to him.

“Lois Lane, pleasure to meet you,” she said, extending a hand but not bothering to stand. “Clark’s told me so much about you.”

Bruce sat on the edge of the table, forcing Clark to take a step back. He shook Lois’ hand and flashed her a pearly smile. “Bruce Wayne, but I’m getting the feeling you already know that.”

Clark blinked, eyes flicking between the two of them. Everything, from Bruce’s neatly rolled sleeves to his casual posture and somehow artfully tousled hair exuded confidence and a relaxed air that hadn’t been at all present in any of their previous encounters.

“I was passing through on my way to get something to eat and caught sight of this guy,” he was saying to Lois, jerking a thumb back in Clark’s direction. “Pretty hard to miss him, 6’4 and in orange plaid.”

“6’3,” he muttered but went unheard. He looked down at his shirt and frowned, tugging at it to straighten the wrinkles. What did they have against plaid anyway?

Lois glanced at him and snickered. “It’s certainly a fashion statement.” She twirled a lock of hair between her fingers. “Where were you going to go eat?”

“There’s a nice diner just outside campus down south,” he said. “Want to come?”

Clark opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it and closed it again, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Sounds good to me,” she said, standing. “Come on, Smallville.”

Bruce glanced back at him momentarily, expression unreadable. “Cute nickname.”

Clark simply grunted and followed after Lois. Despite having barely a two sentence conversation with him prior to now, he was beginning to feel that he preferred the sullen invisible man of a roommate he’d had before.

The diner was secluded, slightly below street level and down a side street. There were only a handful of other patrons who paid no attention to the students as they made their way to a quiet corner booth. Lois raised an eyebrow as Prince’s ‘1999’ rattled from a tiny hidden speaker.  
Bruce shrugged. “I mean this is the last year that song’s going to ever be relevant.”

They settled into the booth, Clark and Lois sandwiched together on one side and Bruce sprawled across the opposite side, leaning his elbow against the window frame.

“So what brings you back to college during O-week?” she asked, peering at him over her menu. “Preying on innocent freshmen?”

He snorted a laugh. “Just killing time. The less time I spend in Gotham with the paparazzi and my butler breathing down my neck, the better.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. “Do either of you two smoke?”

They both shook their heads.

“Ok, don’t mind me then.” He extracted a cigarette from the packet and lit it, much to Clark’s shock.

“I don’t think you can do that here,” he said, glancing nervously at the waitress serving a couple only a few tables away.

Bruce waved a hand dismissively. “Waiters don’t give a crap.”

“But the manager–”

“Should be fine with it. I own the place, after all.”

Lois brought her menu up to cover her face fully, but her eye roll was somehow a full body gesture.

“So you two are what? Journalism majors?” he asked, gesturing at them with the lit cigarette.

“Sure are,” she said. “And we’ll be running the school paper from now on too.”

“I didn’t know we had a school paper,” he said. “But don’t quote me on that.”

The waitress came over to take their orders and, true to Bruce’s words, didn’t even bat an eye at the smoke cloud gradually forming above their heads.

“I love Metropolis newspapers,” Bruce continued. “The Metropolis Mail, Golden Globe–”

“Those are tabloids,” Lois interrupted. “I don’t know about Clark, but I plan to become an investigative journalist and work at the Daily Planet.”

He pulled a face. “Really?"

"What do you have against it?"

"In recent months? Their coverage of the ethnic cleansing in Kosovo was somewhere between pathetic and blatantly racist.” He put his cigarette out on a napkin and paused, seeming to think better of his words. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“Gabriel Petrović has political and familial connections to Serbia,” she protested. “He isn’t a regular writer for the Planet.”

“I’m not sure that helps their case, but what would I know,” he replied, watching as the waitress placed their orders in front of them. “I’m sure Clark knows better than me.”

Two pairs of expectant eyes turned to him and he cleared his throat nervously, pushing his glasses up. “Sorry, when was this–”

“A few months ago,” Lois said. “Come on, Smallville. How’re you going to become a journalist if you can’t even keep up with the news?”

“I don’t know,” he said quietly, taking a bite from his burger slowly as the other two continued their conversation without him.

 Mercifully their discussion, which ranged from Bruce’s favourite sport to Lois’ father’s absurdly thorough doomsday preparations, ended shortly after they finished eating; her citing a leadership seminar she wanted to attend as her reason for leaving so quickly.

“I’ll see you both around,” she said, hoisting her backpack higher on her back. “I really need to see how awesome the EL Hall penthouse is.”

Clark watched her leave before turning back to Bruce who was focussed on texting someone on the smallest cellphone he had seen in his life. “Where are you headed?” he asked, trying to keep the somewhat civil mood they’d maintained through lunch.

“Room.” He didn’t look up from his phone.

“Ok, well, me too,” he said. The silence stretched painfully long between them as he waited for some kind of response or acknowledgment from Bruce. “Should we go now?”

He finished typing his message and slipped what Clark assumed was the newest Nokia back into his pocket, retrieving another cigarette and his lighter again. “What are you waiting for?”

“Right, sorry,” Clark muttered, following him back across the campus.

The orientation club fair was still in full swing, but somehow he felt that he’d have enough on his plate as it was soon enough. He was planning on looking for a part-time job as well, the money he had unlikely to last him long if all food cost as much as it had in the diner (though the cost of their meal had been waived thanks to Bruce).

He didn’t speak to him for the remainder of the walk back and Clark felt his spirit drop even lower than it had over the past hour or so. At some point the sadness shifted to irritation and then outright anger as Bruce, having reached the top floor faster than him, unlocked the door, let himself in, and then let it click shut behind him, locking Clark out. All without a single glance back.

Resisting the urge to just knock the door off its hinges, he unlocked the door again and stepped inside. Bruce was leaning against the kitchen counter, texting again, brow furrowed.

“Who’re you texting? Lois?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Who?” The tapping didn’t slow.

“Lois Lane, the girl you spent the last hour chatting up?”

He paused and glanced up at Clark, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t realise talking to your girlfriend was a crime.”

“She isn’t my girlfriend,” he said. “I don’t get what I did, honestly. You want nothing to do with me until you see that I’m trying to make friends, and then you sabotage that?”

"I have no idea what you're talking about." 

“No, you don't get to say that. What do you have against me?” he asked, slamming his hand down on the table. Embarrassingly his voice cracked and he felt colour rise to his cheeks. “I’m trying my best here, Bruce. This isn’t exactly easy, you know? I don’t know anyone here. I don’t even know how the train works or who Britney Spares is!”

“It’s Britney Spears– nevermind.” He regarded Clark for a moment, head cocked to the side, and then closed his phone with an audible snap. “I don’t have anything against you, really.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He sniffed and adjusted his glasses, Bruce’s expression growing alarmed at his deteriorating mood.

He shifted and pressed his heel back into the kitchen counter. “It’s not about you,” he admitted. “I just want my old roommate back.”

Clark removed his hand from the table gingerly, surveying the obvious dip in the wood. “Where’d he go?” His voice came out strangely thick.

“Law school. He moved into the post-grad dorm.”

“Oh,” he said. _What does that have to do with treating me like crap?_  

Bruce was eyeing him warily. “We good? You’re not going to start crying, right?”

“What? No way,” he said, pushing his glasses against his face so firmly that he felt the frame strain under his grip.

“Ok,” he said, stepping away from the counter and toward his room. “The EL Hall holds dinner at six. I can show you where it is later if you’d like?”

In actuality, Clark had already found the cafeteria the day before when he’d explored the entirety of the dormitory, but he nodded anyway, recognising that he was trying to extend an olive branch. He was unsure of whether Bruce actually saw his response, the other boy retreating at an impressive speed, even by his own standards. 


	3. Chapter 3

_“August is like the Sunday of summer.”_

 

Bruce was somehow even more distant that evening, distracted by something he evidently didn’t plan to share. The cafeteria was connected to the ground floor of the Edna Luthor Hall but more easily accessed by leaving the main building and coming in through the side door near the kitchen. The sun was low in the sky, a cool wind cutting through the stagnating heat.

 

He lingered by the door and gestured toward it. “Food’s through there, you can just grab a plate and take what you want.”

 

“You aren’t coming in?”

 

He shook his head. “I might get something later. It’s too crowded at this time.”

 

“Oh, okay.” Clark couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. While Bruce had been in turn abrasive and dismissive of him, he had had at least some hope that they could come to some kind of armistice over dinner.

 

The other boy hesitated for a moment, arms crossed as he leaned one shoulder against the wall. His eyes were trained slightly over Clark’s shoulder as if he was expecting someone unpleasant to join their conversation at any time. “I know I haven’t exactly made things easy for you,” he said, words strung together awkwardly as if he was repeating a previously prepared speech. “You seem like an alright guy, so I’m sorry about that… I guess. I’ll help you write the room transferral request.”

 

Clark tried to meet his gaze, but he was resolutely avoiding eye contact. “No, it’s ok,” he said, “I’m fine not transferring.”

 

He frowned. “Why?”

 

“I just have a feeling.” He shrugged, hands pushed deep into his hoodie pocket.

 

Bruce’s full attention was finally on him and he peered at Clark, brows furrowed, as if expecting to find some kind of answer in his plain smile. “What does that even– nevermind, if you’re sticking around then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” He pushed off the wall, retracing their steps, giving Clark a wide birth as he walked past.

 

The cafeteria was half empty; a good number of what looked to be freshmen loading up on as many breadsticks as they were capable of holding, but far fewer actually staying to sit at the tables.

 

Clark paced backward and forward gaping at the twenty or so metal tubs of food. “Is this what a buffet is?” he muttered to himself. Not wanting to let such an opportunity go to waste, he piled his plate with as many different types of food as he could. The glasses were becoming an increasingly irritating burden, fogging as he bent to scoop up some mashed potatoes.

 

Turning back to the room he was faced with a daunting feeling that he only recognised from high school TV dramas: the dilemma of where to sit. The students eating dinner were clustered into groups, the twos he imagined were roommates, while the bigger groups were more likely upperclassmen or old school friends.

 

He began to walk toward an empty table at the back of the room before being interrupted by a boisterous voice.

 

“Hey Freshman! Come sit with us.”

 

He turned back and saw a blond boy on a table of three waving to him. Gratefully he turned back and walked over to them.

 

“Nice to meet you, I’m James,” the boy said, pulling a chair out for him. “You’re Wayne’s roommate right?” The other two introduced themselves as Paul and Ryan, both sophomores while James was a senior. They were all watching him eagerly, as if he was some kind of unusual specimen.

 

“Yeah, that’s me,” he said with some resignation, sitting down with them. “I guess news travels fast.”

 

“Sure does,” Ryan said, voice slightly muffled through a mouthful of rice. “There’s a betting pool on how long you’ll last.”

 

“I’m already out of the running,” James admitted.

 

“Oh.” Clark blinked. “Um, and what would happen to be the longest bet?”

 

“Two weeks,” Paul said. “That was how long I lasted, but only because I slept on the couch in Ryan’s room most nights.”

 

He frowned. “Wait, how many roommates has he had before me?”

 

“Um, I think… nine in the past semester? He had one constant roommate for the year and a half before then,” James said, counting on his fingers. “The Dean is an old family friend or something and wants him to make friends. But at the same time doesn’t want to actually enforce any student conduct rules on him, lest he lose a future big donor.” He glanced around as if expecting Bruce to materialise out of nowhere (though from Clark’s experience, that wasn’t entirely out of the question) and continued in a conspiratorial whisper, “Or at least that’s what I’ve heard on the grapevine.”

 

Overwhelmed by the sudden attention of the older students, he shifted uncomfortably in his seat, cutting his chicken into smaller pieces. “Oh, I thought it was just me he didn’t like.” The snorts of disbelief from around the table bolstered his confidence slightly. “Do you have any idea why he’s so against having a roommate? The space is quite large up there; we don’t even have to see each other if we don’t want to.”

 

“Right?” Paul said, nodding vigorously. “I think he just likes to keep the other room empty so his old roomie can come crash whenever his girlfriend kicks him out.” Ryan made a muffled noise of agreement through a lamb chop.

 

“Is there anything I can do to make him dislike me a bit less?”

 

“Yeah, leave,” James laughed. “I mean, you’ve come at the worse possible time too, if I could’ve given you advice it would have been to at least wait till Wednesday before showing up.”

 

“Wednesday? Why’s that?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

 

“The anniversary was on Saturday,” he explained, and then at Clark’s nonplussed expression elaborated, “Y’know, the Waynes’ murder.”

 

“Murder?” he asked, but the question was almost unnecessary. A blurry memory was resurfacing in his mind, a warm summer night, his parents sending him out to play in the yard. His mother fixated on the television as she cried for “ _that poor boy”_. He had caught sight of a child’s pale face, a splatter of blood across his cheek, not shying away despite the flashing cameras surrounding him. There had been a fierce, haunted energy in his eyes that had stayed with Clark, even as his father had ushered him from the room.

 

Regaining focus he realised James was still talking, theorising about the gruesome murders of Bruce’s parents. “So did he mention anything about them to you?” the boy asked, leaning forward eagerly. Clark was beginning to feel that they only wanted to speak to him to gossip and get some insight into how their bets were going to go.

 

_“I was avoiding an anniversary.”_

 

“No, nothing,” he replied.

 

“Oh well,” he said, though it was obvious he was disappointed, “Guess you’d be the last person he would share details with.”

 

For the rest of the meal they busied themselves discussing the coming year, offering him advice on which professors to avoid and which classes were particularly boring. All three were business majors so it was hardly relevant but he enjoyed the conversation nevertheless, happy to gain upperclassmen insight into the workings of the college.

 

“Come sit with us again sometime,” James said as they put away their plates. “And bring Bruce too if he feels like speaking to us mere mortals. I know I might’ve sounded like I was shitting on him, but he’s a pretty fun guy to party with, just doesn’t like to share his personal space.”

 

“Does he ever eat in the cafeteria?”

 

He shrugged. “Rarely. He keeps pretty weird hours.”

 

 

 

 

The sun had set completely in the hour or so Clark had spent in the cafeteria and the temperature had dropped to a pleasant 70 degrees. He sat on a nearby park bench and closed his eyes, taking a moment to relax and try to dim his hearing slightly. He was disturbed after only a few minutes by the click of a lighter, the minute sound bringing him back to his senses simply because it was unexpectedly close.

 

Blinking as he opened his eyes, he scowled at the blur of his glasses which took a moment to see through. There was no one nearby that he could immediately see, but listening carefully to the closest heart beats, he became aware of a presence up high from one of the neighbouring buildings.

 

He was alarmed to see Bruce perched on the edge a rooftop eight or nine stories up, a lit cigarette held loosely between his fingers. He didn’t seem to have noticed Clark.

 

He jumped to his feet and hovered nervously (but not literally), unsure if he should be doing something.

 

Thirty tense minutes of watching his oblivious roommate passed, Clark eventually deciding that it was unlikely Bruce was planning on doing anything impulsive.

 

The night was still young and he was bursting with curiosity for Metropolis, so, keeping a wary eye on him, Clark set out to explore the city.

 

 

 

 

Walking through the big city at night was, at first, far less exciting than Clark had been led to believe. For twenty minutes he walked beside an eight-lane freeway looking for a crossing and trying to resist the urge to just jump it. Eventually he came across a dimly lit subway entrance which allowed him to cross to the other side. Teenagers loitering underground spat slurs at him as he passed under their cloud of strange smelling smoke.

 

However it wasn’t too long before he came across pedestrian friendly streets, his breath stolen by the brightly lit buildings that seemed to loom over him, the rows of food stalls and the street performers playing instruments with a level of skill he had never seen live.

 

He must’ve stopped too long to gape because he realised that he was blocking a young couple with a pram. Hastily apologising he squeezed himself to the wall to get out of their way, but they waved off his apology, smiling.

 

Music was blaring from a nearby underground club and he could smell the aroma of roast duck wafting down from the fifth floor of the restaurant across the street. He had no money with him so didn’t stop by any of the shops, instead drifting down the streets as if he was in a dream.

 

He must’ve walked for hours, though he didn’t quite know it, because he soon realised he’d walked into an entirely different part of Metropolis. The skyscrapers had given way to old fashioned, narrow buildings, five stories at the tallest. Wide roads became cobbled lanes and the brilliantly lit luxury goods stores were replaced by small family run bakeries and boarded up shops. He recognised this from his map as Metropolis’ ‘Old Town’, many buildings from the original settlements.

 

Whilst not as ancient as Gotham, the buildings seemed to carry a certain gravitas to them which Clark let wash over him as he walked, listening to the tinny warble of children’s cartoons trickling from nearby apartments and the clink of plates in sinks as dinner dishes were cleaned.

 

It was humbling, the millions of heartbeats thudding through their own personal rhythms around him. Each one unique, each one belonging to a different life, a different series of experiences, and a different story. In the distance he could hear the soft murmur of Bruce’s heart, a steady, metronomic beat. He hadn’t moved from the rooftop.

 

Clark was jarred from his thoughts by a loud crash, so close and loud that he was momentarily winded, hands pressed to his ears. Recovering quickly, he spun around trying to find the source of the noise. There was a creak and what sounded like books dropping onto carpeted floor, before a weak voice reached his ears.

 

“ _Somebody… someone help, please…_ ”

 

Three streets to his left, the corner shop. He was there before he could finish the thought.

 

It was an old bookstore, wide square windows looking into a dim space only lit by a single lamp at the far back of the shop.

 

“Hello?” he called, trying the door to no avail. “Is anyone in there?” He focussed and recognised a weak heartbeat somewhere in amongst the bookshelves. Hearing no response, he tried the door handle again, this time putting more pressure on it. With a crunch it bent in under his strength, swinging open with little effort on his part.

 

He headed immediately for the back of the shop, knowing exactly where to find the person who had been calling for help. To his horror, he found an elderly woman trapped beneath a fallen bookshelf, her face so pale the blue veins in her forehead stood out as stark as marker lines, her wild eyes flickering around the room wildly.

 

“Help me, help–” she choked, clawing at the carpet.

 

“Just wait please, I’ll– I’ll get help,” he said, starting toward the front of the shop and then hesitating, turning back to her. He could tell already that there was a lot of damage and he knew that moving her would do more harm than good, however the bookshelf was crushing her body, compressing her ribcage onto her lungs.

 

He ran back to her and lifted it off quickly so as to avoid any more books dropping onto her broken body. “I’m going to call an ambulance, ok? Please, _please_ don’t move.”

 

He was back at the front of the shop within a second, fumbling with the phone. Embarrassingly the emergency services number escaped his mind and he stood staring at the keypad for a moment before remembering the numbers.

 

_“911, what is your emergency?”_

 

“There’s this elderly woman here, she’s been hurt really bad. I don’t know what to do, please,” he babbled, glancing back at her.

 

_“Sir, can you tell me where you’re currently located?”_

 

“A bookshop, um, I don’t know– hold on.” He dropped the phone, ran outside and back before it hit the desk. “Corner of 51st, a bookshop.” He took a breath, clenching his fists, willing himself to calm down. “A bookshelf fell on her. I need an ambulance.”

 

_“There’s one on the way now, can you please stay on this line.”_

 

“Yes, ma’am.” The rest of the conversation was a blur, Clark eventually darting back to check on the woman in order to keep her conscious and warm.

 

“What’s your name?” he asked softly, wrapping a blanket from a nearby chair around her shoulders. She was bleeding from a head wound and breathing in raspy, uneven gasps. Her pupils were dilated unevenly and Clark, unsure if it was his imagination or reality, could’ve sworn her brain was unusually swollen inside her skull.

 

“Nina,” she slurred. “ _Mi chiamo Nina._ ”

 

“Ok, Nina,” he said, resting his hand on her shoulder as gently as physically possible. “Um, _mi chiamo Clark_. You’re– you’re going to be ok.” Her sudden loss of English terrified him, yet he tried to smile for her, kneeling in a rapidly growing puddle of her blood.

 

When the ambulance was close enough for anyone to have heard them, he stood and rushed to the door, ignoring her weak cries for a moment to flag down the vehicle. The paramedics burst out of the back and pushed past him into the shop. He stood helplessly nearby, watching as they covered Nina’s mouth with an oxygen mask, supporting her neck as they lifted her onto the stretcher. His ability to carry a tractor on his shoulders was of no use here, instead he just felt huge and clumsy.

 

“Can I ride with her?” he asked as they strapped the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. The two men glanced at each other and then shrugged, motioning for him to get in.

 

“There isn’t much we can do for her without proper equipment and a doctor,” one paramedic explained, eyes on Nina’s vitals. “Are you a relation?”

 

“Me? No, I just– I just heard her calling for help,” he said, watching her bones shift in her chest as the ambulance went over a speed bump. “She said her name was Nina. I don’t know anything else.”

 

The paramedic exchanged a glance with his partner and then nodded to Clark, expression serious. “The doctor won’t let you stay with her once we reach the hospital, but you can leave your contact information with a nurse and we’ll give you a call to update you once– if Nina regains consciousness and wants to speak with you.”

 

“Oh, ok,” he said, blinking numbly at the man as his vision returned to the visible world. “Can I stay in the waiting room?”

 

“You can, but I’m going to make an estimate that from her condition she won’t be seeing any visitors for several days at least. And unless you can find her next of kin you won’t be getting any information out of the doc.”

 

They arrived at the hospital shortly after his words, doctors waiting to receive the patient as Clark was herded out of the ER toward a reception desk. The paramedic who had spoken to him in the ambulance guided him through the paperwork while a nurse tried to track down Nina’s next of kin through her ID card.

 

“How far are we from Metropolis University?” Clark asked suddenly, realising his potential predicament.

 

“About an hour’s drive,” he replied, frowning. “Do you have transport back?”

 

“Um.” He tried all his pockets and was dismayed to find that he didn’t have a single dime. “Would I possibly be able to use the phone?”

 

The nurse pursed her lips and glanced at the paramedic. “Just this once, but don’t go telling anyone, ok?”

 

“Thank you,” he said gratefully, crossing over to her side of the desk. Phone in hand, he hesitated, struck by the realisation that he didn’t actually have anyone he could call.

 

“Is there a problem?” the nurse asked, watching his fingers hovering over the number pad.

 

“No, I’m ok,” he said, stomach dropping as he dialled the only Metropolis number he knew.

 

She was distracted by the pinging of her pager and jumped to her feet. “I need to go, don’t do anything stupid and hide if anyone comes by,” she said, eyes flicking across the room nervously.

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

The phone rung out for near thirty seconds and Clark was already almost certain he would receive no response when he heard the click of the phone being picked up.

 

“ _Hello?_ ”

 

“Bruce,” he blurted out. “It’s me, Clark. I’m really sorry to call so late, but do you know how I can get a taxi?”

 

“ _By calling for one?_ ” Came the response, his irritation clearly audible through the tiny speaker. “ _Where are you?_ ”

 

“Metropolis General Hospital. Um, would you be able to tell me the taxi phone number? Sorry, I’ve never taken one before.”

 

There was a pregnant pause before Bruce spoke again, this time slight hesitation in his voice, “ _Are you alright?_ ”

 

“Hm? I’m fine,” he said. “It’s a long story but I found an old lady who had been hurt pretty bad and called her an ambulance and then–”

 

“ _I have a car, I’ll pick you up._ ”

 

“Oh, you have a car, that’s pretty cool– wait, you will?”

 

“ _Meet me at the north entrance in an hour.”_ There was a click again and Clark realised he’d been hung up on.

 

He stared at the receiver for a moment, before putting it back down quickly, hearing approaching footsteps. A different nurse turned the corner, eyeing him suspiciously. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Just looking for the north entrance,” he said, thanking her as she gestured back the way she’d come.

 

His legs felt wooden, as if his joints no longer wanted to function the way they were intended to. He stumbled into a wall, putting a hole through it as he stuck a hand out to catch himself.

 

“Crap,” he muttered, glancing up and down the hallway but finding it mercifully empty. At the end of the hallway he found the public waiting room, a metal placard reading ’North Entrance’ bolted above the door. Practically collapsing into a chair, he glanced at the clock and saw it was already nearing 2 a.m.

 

The sheer length of the day was weighing on him, his morning orientation lecture with Lois seeming almost a lifetime away. He wanted to call his parents but didn’t want to terrify them, thousands of miles away with no way to help him.

 

He drifted in and out of consciousness, the only person left in the waiting room, before finally jerking to awareness at the sound of a nearby engine that wasn’t an ambulance. Less than a minute later, Bruce was at the door, pushing his way inside, eyes immediately meeting Clark’s.

 

“I thought you might not come,” he said, and then cursed his sleep deprived brain.

 

He simply raised an eyebrow. “I said I would, didn’t I?” He was as immaculately dressed as he had been the entire day, giving no outward sign that being out at close to 3 in the morning on a Monday– now Tuesday was any different to 3 in the afternoon for him. In comparison, Clark was sure his appearance matched his frazzled misery, if the almost worried glances Bruce kept shooting him as they left the hospital were any indication.

 

His car was a sleek black model, though Clark wouldn’t have been able to tell anyone the brand, curved at the edges and low to the ground. A sports car with only the standard two seats.

 

He tugged at the passenger door nonplussed until Bruce came back over to open the door for him.

 

“Wow,” he said, watching with an open mouth as the door slid fluidly upward, rather than to the side, “This is some 21st century stuff.”

 

“Get in, Clark.”

 

They sat in silence as Bruce maneuvered his car out from the carpark and back onto the street. There was a certain calm to the night at this time, Clark’s vision blurring as he drifted in and out of sleep. To his half-closed eyes, the lights of the occasional car in incoming traffic reminded the flicker of fireflies above the lake behind his parents’ house.

 

“So are you going to tell me what happened?” he asked eventually, eyes never leaving the road.

 

“A bookshelf fell on an old lady,” he said quietly. “I’m not sure who she is, but I think she owns the bookshop on the corner of 51st. I heard her calling for help and called for an ambulance.” He picked at a dark spot on his shirt, squinting at it through the gloom. “There’s blood on my shirt.”

 

Bruce glanced at him quickly before turning back to the road, eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sure the cleaners can get the stain out. Otherwise throwing that shirt away is no real loss.”

 

“It’s a woman’s blood, Bruce,” he mumbled. “From her _head_ , from blunt force trauma. It’s not about making my shirt look pretty.”

 

“I know where blood comes from,” he snapped. “It was just a suggestion. Feel free to display it in a glass case if it makes you feel better.”

 

Clark frowned and flicked a small fleck of dried blood into his lap. “Sorry.”

 

He shook his head, as if to dismiss the apology quickly. “Did she live?”

 

“Yes, no, I don’t know,” he said. “The paramedic said they would call me if she recovers and gives them permission. They didn’t want me to stay and wait for her to go through surgery.” The ball of stress in his stomach wound tighter.

 

“That makes sense. Metropolis General is extremely strict on its visitor policy.”

 

“Have you been here before?” Clark asked, exhausted but still wanting to keep their first real non-hostile conversation flowing.

 

He nodded. “A few times when I was a kid.” There was a bitter edge to his words that made Clark regret asking. “And then a few more times in the past couple of years. Mostly to help friends get bad decisions pumped out from their stomachs.”

 

He wanted to express his disbelief at Bruce actually having friends, but finally managed to refrain from saying something insensitive for the first time that evening. “You’re a good friend,” he said instead.

 

“That’s funny, but where do you think they got the drugs in the first place?” 

 

It took him near a minute to piece the words together into a cohesive sentence and then actually answer Bruce’s question in his mind. “Oh, drugs,” he replied sleepily, “I thought you meant undercooked chicken wings.”

 

His last recollection before drifting into a deep sleep was a dry huff of genuine laughter from his roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I realised after writing this that all this shit has happened to Clark on his FIRST DAY of orientation hahahaha. When everyone thought Lois was the danger and drama magnet, it was Clark all along.


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce woke on the floor, sheets wrapped in a tangled mess around his arms and legs. Sitting up, he blinked at the sun pouring in through the window, rolling his left shoulder to ease some of the stiffness from sleeping on it.

 

He could hear an incessant ringing from the common area and closed his eyes, willing it to go away. The phone went quiet briefly before the ringing started up again, the caller evidently determined to get through to them. 

 

“Coming, coming,” he muttered. 

 

He picked up on the eighth ring and immediately wished he hadn’t. A shrill female voice on the other end started babbling about emails and interviews and professors without a moment to even introduce herself. He hung up and turned to dig bread out from the freezer. The phone started ringing again. 

 

“What?” He grabbed the handset with perhaps more anger than necessary. 

 

“ _ Did you just hang up on me? _ ”

 

“Who am I talking to?” 

 

“ _ Wait, is this Clark? _ ” 

 

“No.” 

 

“ _ Ohh. Bruce, right? It’s Lois from yesterday. _ ”

 

He frowned but did remember Lois as the pretty journalism major he’d had lunch with the previous day. Straightening, he attempted to conjure at least a somewhat friendly voice, despite his usual lack of personality in the morning.

 

“Hey Lois,” he said, “I’ll check if Clark’s up.” 

 

“ _ Well he ought to be, it’s nearly midday. _ ” 

 

He left the handset next to the rapidly defrosting bread and went to his roommate’s door, listening for a moment. Hearing no movement inside, he tapped on the wood, softly at first and then more firmly upon receiving no response. There was the sound of the bed springs squeaking and then a sleepy grunt but nothing else. 

 

“He’s asleep,” he said, lifting the phone back to his ear as he attempted to separate two pieces of frozen bread. 

 

“ _ Seriously? Can’t you go in there and wake him up or something? _ ” 

 

“I can leave him a message from you,” he said instead, giving up on the bread. Much to his annoyance the bread tag had slipped off the counter at some point. He checked the floor and then the sink, but it had vanished. Lois continued to babble in his ear so he cut her off impatiently. “Just one sentence, I don’t have a pen with me.” 

 

“ _ Fine, tell him to meet me at The Nook and Cranny coffee shop on the north-east corner of campus at 2 o’clock. _ ” She hung up before he could respond.

 

Placing the handset back down he noticed that there was a missed call from a familiar number. He reached out to call back, but thought better of it, deciding instead to pay a house visit. Stepping from the kitchen, he was caught off guard by Clark leaning in the doorway of his room. 

 

“‘Morning,” he slurred. “Think I slept in.” 

 

“If you had anything planned before lunch then you missed it,” he replied, regarding him carefully. Clark Kent had grown from his unwanted redneck roommate to something more interesting over the course of the past twelve hours, though Bruce hadn’t yet decided where he ranked in his list of things to investigate further. 

 

“Yeah, s’ok,” he rubbed his face. “Did the hospital call?” 

 

“No, but your friend did- ” 

 

“Yeah, 2pm, I heard.” He stifled a yawn. 

 

“You… did?” 

 

There was a long silence as Clark blinked the sleep from his eyes, a strangely spot on “deer in headlights” expression dawning on his face. “Oh um, yeah, that phone is pretty loud.” 

 

Bruce eyed him, wondering exactly how close Clark had been standing while he’d been talking to Lois. He had to admit it was kind of embarrassing if a 6’3 teenager wearing purple plaid had managed to sneak up on him. 

 

“Ok,” he said, “I’m going out. She wanted you to meet her at the Nook and Cranny coffee shop, if you didn’t hear that.” He sidestepped Clark to return back to his room, glancing over his shoulder briefly to make sure his roommate hadn’t done anymore weird teleportation. 

 

Getting dressed quickly, he was out in the blistering Metropolis heat in no time. He soon regretted wearing full length pants in the heat, but pushed aside that discomfort as it was only a brief twenty minute walk to the post grad dorm. 

 

It was always jarring stepping into other campus dorms at Met U. The divide in living conditions between the Edna Luthor Hall (still receiving frequent donations from the Luthor family in her memory) and the rest of the various accommodation offered was the part of Metropolis that reminded him most of home. 

 

He walked down the narrow twenty-second floor corridor, almost suffocated by the heat. It took him a moment to make out the room numbers in the poorly lit gloom, but it turned out not to be necessary, the door to his friend’s room bursting open and a petite blonde girl bursting out, barrelling into him.

 

“Get out of my way- oh, Bruce?” 

 

“Yep,” he said, carefully pushing her back from his chest. “Hi Grace.” 

 

She sniffed and scrubbed at her eyes. He gingerly patted her shoulder, desperately hoping she wasn’t going to start crying. She tugged a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose noisily. “Tell Harvey he can go screw himself and I don’t want to ever see him again!”

 

With that (familiar) declaration, she darted around him and down the corridor, leaving the door ajar. He watched her go, wondering briefly if he should follow her but knew it wouldn’t be appreciated. 

 

Stepping inside, he shut the door behind him, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The blinds were shut, the floor strewn with clothes, books and other grimy items he couldn’t make out. The only light source was a glowing cigarette in an ashtray on the bed. 

 

“Harv,” he said, crossing the room to open the blinds. “This is disgusting. I don’t know how you live like this.” He cringed back as he stepped on a sock that was somehow both moist and crunchy.  

 

“Give me a break,” he replied, covering his face to hide from the bright midday sun now illuminating the room. “Takes time to get used to not living in a serviced apartment. Not that you’d know.” 

 

Bruce fixed him with an unimpressed glare. “You’ve been back for a day, how did you manage to transform your room into such a shithole in the span of less than 24 hours?” 

 

“Housewarming party.” He stretched and stood, unashamedly nude. “The one that you told me you couldn’t come to because you were feeling sorry for yourself?” 

 

“Right,” he muttered. “Your girlfriend told me to tell you to go fuck yourself, by the way.” He wiped his foot against the carpet to try and clean off the remnants of whatever had been on the sock. “But by the looks of things you already have been.” 

 

“Yeah, I heard her. Though I don't think she used those exact words,” he said, extracting a shirt and boxers from his half open suitcase. He was swaying slightly, the effects of whatever he’d taken the previous night still not worn off. “She’ll be back.” 

 

“I know.” The college football team were training on the field below Harvey’s window, small blue and black dots from his perspective. “You should be nicer to her.” 

 

He snorted, voice slightly muffled as he pulled the shirt over his head. “No offence, but I’m not going to take relationship advice from you.” Head popping out from the top, he rolled his eyes at Bruce’s expression. “Looks like you woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” 

 

“The floor, actually.” 

 

“Sounds about right.” He sat back down on the bed, retrieving his cigarette from the ashtray and squeezing off the cherry. He relit the stub and offered it to Bruce who pulled a face, shaking his head. 

 

“I’ve got my own, thanks,” he said, showing Harvey the packet from his pocket. “How was your holiday?” 

 

“Shit,” he said, exhaling heavily. The room grew impossibly more stuffy and Bruce glanced at the smoke detector. 

 

“Sure that won’t get set off?” 

 

“Nah, I disabled it last year,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “Anyway, as I was saying. Spent half the time with Grace and her parents, they used to hate me but now that I’m a law student I’m the golden child somehow. Other half with Aunt Sarah.”

 

“Oh, how was your aunt?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light. The players were running in circles around the field; warm ups, he presumed, though he wasn’t quite sure why they would need to warm up at all in this weather. 

 

He winced at the loud thud as Harvey kicked the side of the bed harshly. “Bitch wanted me to play nice with my dad, now that he’s out on parole.” 

 

His attention snapped back to him immediately. “Your father’s out? Since when?” 

 

“Since two months ago. I tried to call you, but you weren’t answering your phone. Jeeves told me you were finding enlightenment in Tibet.” 

 

“Did Alfred really say I was finding enlightenment?” 

 

“Yeah, I think so. I don’t know, I hung up on him pretty fast once he said you weren’t there.” 

 

“Sorry,” he said. Harvey’s knee was bouncing up and down, though he hadn’t seemed to notice the nervous tic yet. “I’m guessing that’s what the phone call I missed this morning was about?”

 

“Hm? Nah, I just wanted you to come over so I’d have an excuse to kick Grace out.” 

 

He frowned but didn’t say anything more on that topic. “Is he allowed to contact you while on parole?” 

 

“No, restraining order still stands.” His leg bouncing became increasingly more erratic before he slammed a hand down on his knee. “Anyway, that shit is old news. Tell me about the latest roommate.” 

 

“His name is Clark and he’s a scholarship student from Kansas,” Bruce said, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Last night I picked him up from Metropolis General at 2 am because he’d travelled there in an ambulance after saving an old woman’s life.” 

 

Harvey barked a laugh. “Are you serious?”

 

“Dead.” 

 

“It’s been what, two days?” he asked, shaking his head. “I swear you attract the freakiest sorts, Bruce.”

 

“Saving an old lady is hardly freaky.” He frowned.

 

“I guess.” He eyed Bruce thoughtfully. “So when do I get to meet him?”

 

He shrugged. “Whenever. I doubt he’ll stick around much longer.” 

 

“Of course, you do have a talent for driving people away.” His chuckles turned into wheezing coughs and he extinguished the remains of his cigarette on the bed sheets. 

 

“Thanks.” He opened the window to let some air that wasn’t clogged with smoke into the room. “Can we get out of here, Harv? This place stinks worse than your old bedroom.”

 

“Please, you miss my  _ fragrance _ ,” he said, dissolving into laughter mixed with coughing. He began to pull on pants anyway, tripping and falling onto his face as he tried to pull them over his knees. 

 

Bruce frowned, cocking his head to the side. He considered going to help him but didn’t want to get whatever was on the floor onto his own pants. “Are you still drunk?”

 

“Just a little,” he said, standing and then tripping again. “Barely.”

 

This time Bruce stepped forward to stop his fall, stumbling a little under the weight of the larger man. “Pull up your own pants, Harv. You’re a fucking mess.” 

 

“You’re one to talk,” he said, but did manage to pull up his pants, stumbling into the bathroom to take a piss. “Should’ve come to my party,” he called over his shoulder, “Place was boring as hell. Just a whole lot of stuck up Metropolis girls who don’t know how to dance.” 

 

“Maybe that was just because they were packed in like sardines,” he replied, glancing around the room. The post grad dorm rooms were at least somewhat larger than some of the undergrad ones, but it still wasn’t really an appropriate size for the kind of parties Harvey liked to hold. 

 

“Actually I don’t know why I would complain to you about stuck up bitches, given you are one-” 

 

“Are you done?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “Because if you aren’t then I’ll just meet you downstairs while I call you a cleaning service.” 

 

He didn’t bother to close the door so Bruce was treated to the sound of his friend urinating loudly. He barely batted an eye, this being not even close to one of the grossest things Harvey had done in his presence. 

 

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” he said, reemerging in the doorway. “That’s actually the least amount of shit you’ve spoken about any roommate, myself included.” 

 

“I said he was from Kansas.” 

 

“What did I say about being stuck up?” 

 

“Whatever.” He jerked the door open. “I can’t talk shit about him because I’ve barely interacted with him.” 

 

“Yeah, but you also picked him up from the hospital last night at, what, 2 am? Metropolis General is an hour’s drive away, surely you managed to form an opinion on him in that amount of time.” Harvey followed him down the corridor to the elevator, lost in his thoughts as he put together his latest absurd analysis. 

 

“Stop psychoanalysing me,” he said as they stepped into the elevator together. “Just because you wouldn’t do a favour like that for anyone doesn’t mean I’m as much of an asshole as you are.” 

 

“I’d pick you up if you called at a reasonable time,” he argued. “And maybe Grace, if I was already driving. Stop rolling your eyes at me.” 

 

“You don’t even have a car.” 

 

“That’s beside the point. Anyway, is there a betting pool on how long your latest roomie is going to last? I want in on it.” 

 

“I don’t know,” he said. “You’re banned anyway, after I collaborated with you on the last one.” 

 

“Oh." He drummed his fingers against the rail in the elevator. "Can you tell Grace to come back so that I can get her to do it.” 

 

“No.”

 

“Come on, Bruce. Let’s flip on it, at least. Heads and you call Grace, tails and I stop bothering you.” 

 

“Harvey.” He was all too familiar with his friend’s double headed coin. 

 

“Fine,” he said, leaning against the elevator wall as it crawled down the highrise, floor by floor. “I still want to meet him.”

 

Bruce closed his eyes momentarily, already dreading whatever Harvey was planning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To note: Grace Lamont is Harvey Dent's fiancee in BTAS so I figured I would use her here.
> 
> Happy Easter everyone!!


	5. Chapter 5

_“I became a journalist to come as close as possible to the heart of the world.”_

_— Henry Luce_

 

“So here’s how I see it: the Met U student paper is our launching point to the top newspapers in the country. I’ll be the editor, you’ll be the photographer, and we’ll both write articles. How does that sound?”

 

Clark sipped his coffee slowly, stifling a yawn. He had a feeling the last thing he wanted was for Lois to think he was bored. “Seems good to me.”

 

Lois tapped her pen on the table absentmindedly, flicking through a stack of Met U’s old student newspapers. They were squeezed onto a tiny table by the window of her favourite coffee shop. Unfortunately she wasn’t alone in that thinking; Clark rubbing his forehead to try to stave off the growing headache as young adults chattered around them with an enthusiasm he didn’t quite share.

 

He had woken near midday to a soft knock on the door, lying on top of his bedsheets with only a vague memory of dragging himself up the stairs. His mouth had tasted like cotton and his glasses were lost somewhere under the bed. Bruce and Lois’ voices had dragged him to full awareness, the former only a few feet from his door whilst the later could only be heard through the phone.

 

“Are you even paying attention?” she didn’t sound irritated, only slightly exasperated. “Honestly, Smallville, you look like you got hit by a truck. What’s happened between yesterday and today that has you so frazzled?”

 

Clark attempted to give the papers she passed him a thorough read, but his mind was back at his room. They were a mile outside of campus but he still listened for any call from the hospital.

 

“Nothing,” he said, and then, “Everything.”

 

She nodded knowingly. “City life a challenge to adapt to?”

 

“Yes, but I like it.” He sighed. “Or at least I _liked_ it.”

 

She raised an eyebrow and leaned forward in her chair, elbows on the table. A stack of papers spilled to the floor much to the annoyance of the couple seated only half a foot away from them. “Cut the cryptic bullcrap, Clark,” she said. “Is that roommate of yours giving you trouble? He seemed pretty snappy when I spoke to him this morning.”

 

“Not really, actually– wait I thought you guys were getting along well?”

 

“Don’t change the subject,” she said, and then shrugged. “I don’t know, he gives me emotional whiplash every two seconds with his personality. If he even has one.”

 

Clark nodded, absorbing the information. “So are we planning on recruiting more students for the paper?” He was shameless in his second attempt to change the subject, but miraculously she rolled with it.

 

She disappeared under the table, picking up the papers that had fallen. He waited patiently for her to resurface, his shoulders too broad for him to fit under there himself, or to even lean to the side without bumping the neighbouring table. He wondered again why she was so fond of this particular coffee shop.

 

“I’ll speak to some Liberal Arts professors about letting us promote the newspaper to their students so that we can encourage submissions. But it’ll just be easier if we manage the project ourselves,” she said, remerging. “I don’t do teamwork well.”

 

He was unsurprised by that revelation. “I think that should be our first step,” he said. “Before first week starts. Do you want me to go with you?”

 

“It’s ok, I’ll just send some emails out,” she said. “Oh, I almost forgot! Here, take this.” She rummaged through her pocket before retrieving a small plastic device. “It’s a one-way pager, so you can get to a payphone when I call you.”

 

He turned it on and then off again, weighing it in his hand. “Are you sure?” he asked, hesitating. “I don’t think I have enough money to pay you for it.”

 

“It’s fine,” she said, waving a hand dismissively. “If anything you’re doing me a favour by using it. Besides, my dad practically hoards them.” She was shoving the papers back in her bag, glancing at her watch. “I have an interview at _The Daily Star_ for an internship now, so I’ve got to dash. But I’ll cc you in any correspondences with the professors, ok?”

 

“Thanks, Lois,” he said, gulping down the last of his coffee. She saluted him lazily with two fingers, effortlessly manoeuvring her way out of the crowded shop.

 

He had seen pagers in TV shows and in the hospital the previous night, but never held one himself. His parents owned a landline, necessary for correspondences with their business contacts in Kansas City. But there were at least a handful of Smallville residents who would just pay a nickel at the local post office to use their phone.

 

Having nothing much else to do, he returned to his dorm room. Bruce had also come back from wherever he’d disappeared to in the morning and was sitting on the floor in the kitchen, phone pressed against his ear. He was listening quietly, a man on the other end speaking French in a low, urgent voice. Upon noticing his arrival, he glanced up and simply nodded at him. Clark nodded back but wasn’t exactly sure what they were communicating.

 

 

 

 

The rest of orientation week passed with few incidents, Clark sitting in on a few more introductory lectures ranging from college food prep to long distance telephone calls. Bruce was out more than in, returning to the room in the early hours of the morning and then leaving again usually before the sun rose. Since picking him up that night from the hospital, his manner had shifted from outright hostility to an unreadable apathy that left Clark even more confused.

 

His college schedule had him in class three days a week so he spent the other four days reading ahead and advertising the opportunity to write articles for the student paper to random people on campus. He waited patiently for a call from the hospital, dread sinking in further every day that the phone stayed silent.

 

Each night he would call his parents after he knew they had finished dinner, allowing for the timezone difference. He shared only the basic details of his life in Metropolis, not wanting to give away too much of his loneliness, preferring to hear about the various things his friends were getting up to in Smallville.

 

“ _Peter has started working full time on the farm with his father_ ,” his mother had told him. “ _And Lana is doing well, really well. She’s started an apprenticeship at Mrs. Miller’s hairdresser shop, you know the one. You really ought to come visit, dear. When do you get to go on holiday?_ ”

 

“I might be able to come back during the mid-semester break,” he had said. “But I’ll have to wait and see.”

 

It was true that he wasn’t exactly certain if he could make it back for the one week holiday. It was only the first week and college had picked up at a terrifying pace, far from the bludge the few community college graduates he knew from his mother’s side of the family had promised. He’d known Met U was an elite university, but the disadvantages of coming from a rural high school hadn’t sunk in until he had his textbooks and syllabus in front of him.

 

Studying late on Friday night, he was jerked from his focus by the sound of the front door clicking open.

 

“Huh, it’s that time already,” he said, glancing at the clock. The hour hand was a hair’s width away from the four.

 

“Yeah.” Bruce hung up his jacket, taking in the papers strewn across the coffee table and raising an eyebrow. “What are you studying for?” He smelt like alcohol, sex and other things Clark wasn’t familiar with, his hair uncharacteristically messy.

 

“Just… _everything_ ,” he said, gesturing at the table. “My professor told us that we’ll be moving at a breakneck speed and that thirty percent of the cohort doesn’t pass Principles of Journalism Ethics. I’m just doing all my textbook and pre-readings so that I’m not overwhelmed when he actually teaches the material in class.”

 

Bruce rolled his eyes, leaning against the door. His pupils were blown unnaturally wide, heart pattering away at an elevated rate. “Thirty percent of your peers fail because they don’t show up to class. Don’t freak out, he’s just trying to make a bunch of stupid eighteen-year-olds take his course seriously.” He spoke fast, fluid, imperceptibly slurred for anyone other than Clark.

 

“I guess so,” he said, frowning down at his books. “But I need to maintain a 4.0 GPA to keep my place here.”

 

“I know,” he replied. “But relax, they didn’t give you the scholarship by accident. You won’t need to psyche yourself out studying for a month at least.”

 

This offered little comfort to Clark, his roommate having always given off the ‘I could maintain a 4.0 in my sleep’ vibe. He gritted his teeth. “It was an academic hardship scholarship, because I’m from a rural community and adopted.”

 

“I know how the Vice Chancellor thinks. He’s a close family friend– did you say you were adopted?” Bruce stopped mid sentence, mind seeming to have only just caught up with his mouth. He was watching Clark with an openly curious expression, whatever he was on leaving him slightly less guarded than usual.

 

“Yeah, I was adopted when I was a baby,” he said, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t remember my birth parents at all. It’s pretty… complicated.”

 

“Oh.” The interest faded back to apathy so quickly that he questioned whether it had been his imagination in the first place. “Anyway, as I was saying, the scholarships aren’t offered based on a single aspect of your application. While it may have been listed as such, you wouldn’t have received it unless you exceeded the expectations for academics and extracurriculars too.”

 

Clark digested the information slowly. “So I’m not just a charity case?”

 

“Of course not,” he said, stepping away from the door and steadying himself against the wall. “Metropolis University doesn’t accept a single student that they don’t see as having either a present or future benefit to them. The medical lecture theatre doesn't share my surname by coincidence.” He crossed the room in short, slightly unsteady steps, stumbling out onto the balcony.

 

Cool air flowed in through the door before he slid it shut, clearing Clark’s head and waking him up despite the long hours he’d spent studying. After a moments hesitation, he stood and followed Bruce outside.

 

The skyline visible from their room never ceased to steal his breath, glowing pillars dotted through the silky darkness. The side eye he received from Bruce when he squeezed out with him into the humble space suggested he didn't share his enthusiasm.

 

“Shouldn’t you go to sleep?” he said, pushing himself up onto the wall enclosing the balcony. He sat on the corner, legs dangling down, positioned more precariously than Clark was comfortable with.

 

“I could say the same to you,” he replied, leaning his elbows on the wall as he looked up at the sky. Ma Kent had always complained that in Kansas City it was impossible to see the stars even half as well as they could see them back in Smallville, but for Clark it only took a moment of readjusting his vision for the night to light up with a million pinpricks of light.

 

Bruce didn’t bother responding with anything other than a grunt. Fumbling in his pocket he extracted a packet of cigarettes, much to Clark’s annoyance, lighting one and quickly polluting what had been crisp air with the stench of bitter smoke.

 

“My Pa always said that those’ll send you to an early grave,” he said, gesturing at him.

 

“Do you really think that’s a deterrent for me?”

 

He blinked. “Um, yeah, why wouldn’t it be?”

 

Bruce’s laugh was dry, shaking his head as he looked out at the brightly lit skyscrapers. “Your father sounds like a good role model.” 

 

“He is,” Clark replied, unsure if the other boy was being sarcastic. “Without Ma and Pa I’d be lost entirely.” He cringed when he thought his words through. “Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to be insensitive–”

 

He waved his apology off. “I’m not all that fragile, Clark.”

 

Clark stood in awkward silence for another minute or so before the odour of the smoke became too much and he turned to go back inside. “I’d better pack away my books,” he said, to which his roommate simply nodded, eyes distant.

 

The stench cut off as soon as he stepped through the door, almost too quickly. Glancing back he saw Bruce stubbing out the cigarette despite having only just lit it, flicking the remainder over the edge of the balcony.


	6. Chapter 6

Clark got little sleep that night, partially waking at six to the hum of the TV’s electrical circuitry – Bruce watching something or other with the sound muted. Drifting off again for another brief two hours, he was wrenched into consciousness by the shrill ring of the telephone. He lay in bed for a good minute, listening to his roommate answer the call.

 

“ _This is Doctor Andrew Jones calling from Metropolis General Hospital–_ ”

 

He was on his feet and into the kitchen before he had time to think his actions through. “That’s for me,” he blurted out, reaching for the phone. Bruce turned quickly at the sound of his voice, stumbling backward as Clark crowded him into the corner.

 

“What the– where did you come from?”

 

“Sorry,” he said. “Can I talk to the doctor?”

 

He gave him a funny look but passed the phone over anyway. “Knock yourself out.” He left as wide a berth as possible between them as he left the kitchen.

 

“Um, hi,” Clark said, now alone. “This is Clark Kent speaking.”

 

“ _Oh, great,_ ” Doctor Jones said, tone warm. “ _I was looking for you. I have a patient here–Nina Bianchi–who would like to speak with you._ ”

 

“She’s ok then?” he asked, shoulders sagging with relief. “Does she want to speak to me now?”

 

“ _I can’t discuss medical information with you, unfortunately,_ ” he said and then hesitated. “ _But I would recommend you come in personally, she’s rather weak at the moment so I wouldn’t advise a telephone call._ ”

 

“Ok, got it,” he said, glancing into the lounge area. Bruce was sitting on the couch cross-legged, a book in his hand. “So uh, do I just show up?”

 

“ _Give your name at the front desk, I’ve left a memo for the receptionist. Visiting hours end at five._ _Thanks for doing this, Mr Kent. I haven’t been able to contact any of her other family members._ ”

 

Clark wasn’t sure what to say to that, closing the conversation with a quiet, “Thank you for calling me.” Stepping out from the kitchen he noticed Bruce was watching him, book forgotten on the couch.

 

“I’m going to the hospital,” he said, guessing that he was silently being asked to explain the telephone call. “The lady I went in the ambulance with last week woke up and wants to speak to me.”

 

“How are you planning on getting there?”

 

He thought for a moment and then shrugged, making a beeline for his room in order to dig out his city map. The lines of roads, train lines and rivers took him some time to decipher, but he eventually found the hospital and frowned. “Why isn’t there a train line to the hospital?”

 

“Metropolis is a city of cars,” Bruce replied, raising his voice (unnecessarily) to be heard across the room. “Need a lift?”

 

“Really?” he asked, scrambling to his feet. He was unable to keep his disbelief from being heard in his tone. 

 

He didn’t respond, instead disappearing back into his own room and returning with car keys. “Let’s go.”

 

As it turned out, the Edna Luthor Hall had a carpark in the basement below the building. Clark wracked his mind to work out why he hadn’t remembered that from the previous time he’d ridden in Bruce’s car and did eventually vaguely recall being dropped off in front of the building.

 

In the far left corner of the carpark there were closed off private garages. Watching Bruce kneel to unlock the closest one, Clark couldn’t help but comment, “Is your car _that_ expensive?”

 

“Not really,” he said, removing the padlock and struggling with the heavy door. “They offered me the garage, and it’s preferable to having my car scratched up constantly by other students.”

 

Absentmindedly, Clark bent and lifted the roller door with one hand. “What car is it?”

 

“Bentley Arnage.” He was watching him thoughtfully. “Those must’ve been some heavy hay bales you were swinging back in Kansas.”

 

Bruce’s words made him pause, realising with dread that if he didn’t want to be put in a particularly difficult situation he’d have to be much more careful with how much he showed of his abilities. Back in Smallville his strength, speed and heightened senses had been an open secret among the townspeople. He couldn’t have hidden them even if he’d wanted to; the powers had developed before he or his parents had fully realised how different he was from his peers.

 

“Sounds expensive,” he said, laughing nervously. “I’m not going to ruin anything just by sitting in it, right?”

 

Bruce glanced at him with an expression that made him question his own intelligence. “Just get in, Clark. It’s a long drive.”

 

 

 

 

In peak hour morning traffic the drive took unsurprisingly far longer than it had at the deadest hours of the night the last time he’d gotten a lift. The traffic spanned for miles, no accident or police stop visible as a reason for the congestion. There were simply too many cars. 

 

Bruce wasn’t exactly hostile, relatively speaking, but he clearly wasn’t particularly interested in conversation either. He turned the radio on a little over half an hour into their journey, flooding the car with the mindless chatter of local talkshow hosts. 

 

It took them almost two hours to reach the hospital, the carpark half empty due to it still being fairly early in the morning. Clark’s stomach gave a gurgle of protest reminding him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, but he ignored it, more focussed on the task ahead. In daylight he got a much better look at the hospital, the imposing blue and white building stretching high into the sky. When he focussed, he could hear all sorts of strange sounds which wouldn't have been present in a normal high rise building; hundreds of rattling coughs per second, the beep of various machines, and opera music, weirdly enough reverberating upward from what was probably the morgue. 

 

A middle-aged nurse greeted him at the front desk with a plain smile that warmed ever so slightly when he told her his name. “This way, Mr Kent. Mrs Bianchi has been expecting you.”

 

“I hope I haven’t kept her waiting too long,” he said, scratching his head. He glanced back at Bruce who was lingering near the door, looking vaguely queasy.

 

“Can my… friend come up too?”

 

“Sorry, Doctor Jones has only signed off on one visitor–” she began and then paused, recognition dawning on her face. “Oh, Mr Wayne! I didn’t see you there.”

 

“It’s alright, really,” he said. “I’ll just wait outside.”

 

“Nonsense, nonsense,” she fussed, “Just let me speak to the doctor and I’m sure you can come up too, dear. No trouble at all.” She disappeared out the back door. There were only a handful of patients in the waiting room, but Clark felt as if all eyes were on them.

 

“I didn’t know your celebrity status extended to the hospital pulling favours,” he said, trying to keep his tone light but unable to hide his curiosity. No sooner were the words out of his mouth that he noticed a gold plaque below the reception counter.

 

_The North Wing of the Metropolis General Hospital is dedicated to Thomas and Martha Wayne_

_in thanks for their years of service and donations which have given many the gift of life._

 

“My father was a neurosurgeon,” he explained, crossing the room to read the inscription beside Clark. “Several times a year – sometimes up to once a month – Metropolis General would fly him in to perform particularly risky surgeries that their own team weren’t skilled enough to handle. I often came too, so those who’ve been here more than a decade sometimes remember me.”His voice was low so as not to be picked up by the others in the room.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t realise–”

 

“Don’t do that.” Bruce frowned. “There isn’t anything to apologise for. You were just asking a question.”

 

Clark opened his mouth to protest but was distracted by the nurse returning, beaming at the two of them. “Good news, boys, you can both go up. She knows you’re coming.”

 

 

 

 

Nina Bianchi was on the fourth floor in the room furthest south, overlooking the Metropolis Botanical Gardens. Her head had been shaved and bandaged, eyes sunken into her skull, frail hands clutching her blankets as she gazed out the window.

 

Clark cleared his throat and knocked on the door softly, exchanging a nervous glance with Bruce who just shrugged, lingering even further back. She turned at the sound, her face lighting up with recognition.

 

“My hero!” she said, her vowels warmed by her thick Italian accent. She had no teeth, dentures in a glass on her side table. It took her a moment to untangle from her IV, but she eventually managed to lift both arms in an invitation for a hug.

 

“I’m just glad you’re alright,” Clark said, crossing the room to return the offered hug, terrified he’d snap her in two accidentally. “But you don’t need to call me a hero.”

 

“Ah, ah.” She shook her head, taking his face between her hands. “No need to be so humble, my boy. Without you I would still be under that shelf, even today!”

 

He struggled to smile, bent over her bed awkwardly as she squished his cheeks. “I’d, um, hope not.”

 

She cackled, her buzzing energy at odds with her fragile physique. “You are too right! I’d have dripped through the floor by now. It would be a pity, such pity. My husband always liked to keep downstairs very clean.”

 

Bruce stifled a laugh into a cough behind him, the transition so smooth that only Clark would’ve been able to hear it. Mrs Bianchi seemed to finally notice him at that sound, finally letting go of his face.

 

“Ah, who is this? Your friend?” she asked, peering over his shoulder. “Come here so I can look at you. My eyes are very bad, see?” 

 

He walked over, one hand in his pocket, the other extended for her to shake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs Bianchi,” he said, smiling politely. “I’m Bruce.” His transition from the blatant discomfort displayed in the hallway to the same casual confidence he’d exuded while first introducing himself to Lois was incredibly jarring.

 

“Bruce?” she said, pronouncing the syllable forcefully. “Bruce and Clark, eh? Do I thank the both of you?”

 

Stupidly, Clark wondered for a moment where she’d gotten his name, before he remembered he’d left it with the ER nurse.

 

“You can just thank him, if anyone,” Bruce was saying. “I’m afraid I didn’t do much. However, if you need any help at all with paying your medical bills, please do let me know.” Clark forced himself not to question the generous gesture. For all he knew, that was par for the course for Bruce whenever he interacted with anyone in a remotely challenging financial situation.

 

“Such nice boys,” she said, shaking her head. She was just holding his offered hand instead of shaking it, pressing it to her forehead. “When I was hurt I prayed for an angel to come and save me. And now look, two angels have come to me!”

 

Clark glanced at his roommate, unable to keep the skepticism from his expression. “That’s very kind of you, ma’am,” he said, aiming for diplomacy. “Are the doctors going to be letting you out of here any time soon?”

 

She nodded, finally letting go of Bruce’s hand and sagging back against her pillow. “They tell me one more week,” she said. “One more week and I can go home.”

 

“That’s good,” he said. “That’s good, right? Do you have someone to look after you then?”

 

“Bah, I don’t need looking after,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “I am a shopkeeper. I need to get back to work.”

 

“The bookstore, right?” Clark asked. He’d been back by the store once in the past two weeks, the displays at the back still collapsed, a forgotten bowl of soup evaporating away to a congealed pile of vegetables by the front desk. “Do you run it on your own?”

 

“Yes, yes,” she said. “My husband’s shop. But now I am owner.” Her burst of energy seemed to have faded as quickly as it had come, her voice growing weaker as she lay back.

 

“Oh wow,” he said, “That seems like a lot of work. Uh, are you sure you’ll be alright?” He was unable to keep the concern from his voice.

 

Mrs Bianchi smiled toothlessly at him. “You worry too much. I must be alright so I can run my husband’s shop.”

 

“I’m sure Clark would love to help you out with your bookstore whilst you’re recovering.”

 

“I… would?” He turned to Bruce who just shrugged. “Actually yeah, I would be happy to help you once you’re out of here,” he said. “Just call me if you need anything, ok?” He could hear footsteps coming down the corridor toward her room, still a while away. The swish of what sounded like a lab coat made him suspect it was a doctor.

 

“You boys are too kind to me,” she said, shaking her head. “Do you need a job? I can give you a job to work with me, ok?”

 

True to his prediction, a grey haired doctor rounded the corner at that moment. The corner of his eyes crinkled as he smiled at the three of them, extending a hand for Clark to shake. He was followed by a young nurse who immediately went to the back of Mrs Bianchi’s bed to unlock the wheels.

 

“Mr Kent, Bruce, great to see the two of you here,” he said. “I’m Doctor Jones. We spoke on the phone, I believe?”

 

“That’s right,” he said, returning the handshake. “Thank you for calling me.” Bruce had clammed back up again, resolutely looking out the window.

 

Doctor Jones reached for the clipboard at the end of the bed. “How are you feeling, Mrs Bianchi?” he asked, flicking through the papers.

 

“Very, very good,” she said, though did not sit up, voice coming out as a croak. “I am ready to go home now.”

 

“Well, we’ll see about that,” he replied, skepticism obvious from his tone. “We’ll be bringing you in for your scheduled MRI now. My apologies for not mentioning that to you, Mr Kent.”

 

“That’s no problem,” he said, glancing at Bruce and then Mrs Bianchi awkwardly, “Um, I guess we’ll head off then?”

 

“Might be best, especially if you guys are on a tight schedule. I can’t predict how long we’ll be gone for.” 

 

The three of them stepped out of the way as the nurse began to wheel the bed from the room.

 

“Come visit again,” Mrs Bianchi said, reaching to pat Clark’s arm. “And then answer my offer, ok?”

 

He smiled at her and nodded as she left, followed by the doctor and nurse. There was silence for a moment before Bruce cleared his throat, tipping his head toward the door.

 

“Let’s get out of here.”

 

“So do you always do that to people?” Clark asked once they were in the elevator.

 

“Hm?”

 

“Going and volunteering other peoples’ time.”

 

“You were going to anyway,” he said, unperturbed. “I was just speeding the process up.”

 

Clark just shook his head in disbelief. “You’re the worst.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys. My mid-sem break is over, so now I'm back at uni with the pace picking up for the last few weeks. Thanks again for all the thoughtful comments on the last few chapters, they really encouraged me to try and push this one out despite my busy schedule haha.

**Author's Note:**

> Please drop a comment if you enjoyed, they really mean a lot to me!


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